Ode to Red

Ode to Red-

the color of passion
the color of heat
the color of paint on my
bedroom walls.

the color of Apples
the color of lipstick
the color of pain.

the color of new womanhood
the color of nail polish
the color of the fastest car
on the block.

Red is the color
of Anger
of Vanity
of Love
of Lust
of Sex

and all the rest.
love

Red is
the color of a new day
beginning to dawning.

Red is the color
of rubies
of jewels
of revenge
of Power

of kissing

but most of all,
Red is the color of
my beating heart
whenever it is missing
You.

Red is the color of Birth.
and Red is:

the color of passion
the color of heat
the color of paint on my
bedroom walls.

the color of Apples
the color of lipstick
the color of pain.

the color of new womanhood
the color of nail polish
the color of the fastest car
on the block.

but most of all,
Red is the color of
my beating heart
whenever it is missing
You.

Red is the color of Birth.
Each day that we awaken,
we are born anew.
we are struggling
with only
the re-birthing process

like caterpillar to butterfly
Each day we change and become
something re-born, something mighty, something
as large and lonely
as Hope.

Each day we shed our sins
we shed our snakeskins
and begin again with the coming
Dawn

and the color Red.

but most of all,
Red is the color of
my beating heart
whenever it is missing
You.

Desire

Desire 4/19/13 by Emily Sturgill

I am a Galaxy

upon a sea of words.

I am Lost

without being heard.

I am that Song-you cannot get out of

your mind-yet you choose not to dance to.

I am Ancient

like a wooley-mammoth,

but empty,

like the half drunk glass-

of wine.

I space out, and separate like,

milk from cream,

or the froth

inside a dream,

you’ve barely recalled-

ever

having at all.

The best for last.

I always seem

to wax poetic and day-dream

all the best of my musings

unto my blog.

It’s frustrating

, because I wanted to:

save the best for last.

I want to take all the good ramblings and rantings,

and wrap them up into

a velvet handkerchief

saving them up for a stew.

Saving the gravy of random crazy-

poetry to drip into my newest chapbook.

It seems like I cannot quite help myself,

I start typing and all my poem-thoughts

get out. They escape running crazy like chickens

who have their heads all cut off,

and the bodies cannot seem to grasp it at all.

So they run and dance upon my little blog.

Like poetry misfits, just waiting until

somebody catches a glance

in their stubborn direction.

My poems try to fly away,

and they flew the coop.

Geez, what a mess!!

I am trying very hard,

to save the best for last.

 

Play me

Play me very carefully.

Play me like,

the broken fiddle I’ve become.

Use both hands to strum,

broken strings, into uneven chords.

A malady of a melody

that I have become.

Play me very carefully

like the hollowed drum.

Pound on my back,

until I thump and boom.

Be careful whatever way you play.

Play me like the electric guitar

smashed on a sound-stage in front

of screaming fans.

Play me like a broken fiddle,

tighten my strings

take me in for repairs,

I’ll be yours to play tomorrow,

I’ll be there good as new,

for forever and a day,

and a dream to come true.

Like a malady of a melody

that I have become.

Play me very carefully,

so I do not,

become undone.

Running on E

Running on E,

Empty, my thoughts have

decided to run away,

they flee free me.

 

Running on E,

I let the empty get the best 

of Me. I reach out-

towards the empty sky,

not a cloud in sight.

 

Running on E,

Grabbing outwards for the 

poetry. To take a hold of Me.

But too much everything equates

a void.

 

Running on E,

but I digress.

Where did I misplace the Lioness?

Where did I misplace the Poetess?

 

Running on E,

nothing comes very easy.

The thoughts all roll right out of my brain,

catching like embers burning into fire,

as the free-verse falls down.

 

Running on E,

a hapless clown.

How to quench this thirst,

of creating something out of

nothing?

 

Running on E,

it leaves me screaming-

so loud- my lips leave no sound.

The words all blocked up,

a corked up wine bottle.

 

Running on E,

the empty sound of silence,

What is left to say?

Where do the poem-words take you,

Anyway?

 

Empty, Empty, Empty,

and then like Humpty Dupty,

We All fall down.

Falling down again.

With a crash.

endurance

Running up that big hill,

Running out of breath,

I have no endurance-no strength left.

 

Running up the wall,

Running up the street,

Running all sideways,

the stars beneath my feet.

 

a troubled mind

tries to find the time

to create a story-

or weave a rhyme.

 

a writers mind,

always running-no where to go,

just running on steam,

among broken dreams.

 

Running up that hill,

Running towards free-will,

Running towards a notion or two,

or three.

 

Finding a moment,

covered in honesty reaching for,

glee.

 

Poetry always reminds me,

to find myself,

I must forget all else-

letting the raw ideas flow-

right through me,

like one in a trance.

 

Riddles, sphinx, pyramids

Ancient stuff, it is all a mystery-

entirely over my head-

way beyond me.

 

But Poetry, my Muse

she whispers to me in my left ear, lightly,

she says just that I should run-

run freely until I reach the Sun.

 

Running up the wall,

Running up the street,

Running all sideways,

the stars beneath my feet.

 

Running up that big hill,

Running out of breath,

I have no endurance-no strength left.

wiccan11 Picture 94 IMAG0900

 

 

Life is messy too, not only artwork.

Life is messy too.

Not just Artwork, self-expression, painting, drawing,sculpture, photography…

writing for example is another messy art;

thinking of things like:

libel,copyrights,slander,plagiarists, tabloid-journalists,badly written poetry,poorly written novels…..writers block.

But Life, on the other hand is frequently a different landscape,

altogether, a big terrain of heavily soiled tears.

disappointments, family feuds, emotional problems,

irrational and faulty logic,

thrown upon you,

like a fistful of sand.

then there are those persons,

who bully,cheat and lie.

Yes, as the saying goes, no one said life was easy.

or if they did, clearly they were mistaken or

simply full of shit.

no, life is a messy place.

A child’s hand-prints on the door-frames,

dog-prints on the muddy kitchen floor,

lipstick on a collar,

a cat who shits outside its litter-box.

 

Changing an baby’s dirty diaper.

house-training a puppy-dog.

Telling somebody you love them but…

you do not like living with them anymore?

How do you even do that?

I don’t even know.

 

I passed the ball to my husband.

He is dreading the conversation he

must have with a family member later.

 

I would not want to bring the subject up my own self-

I’m chicken-little, I don’t want to see the sky fall

down.

But Life is very messy.

if it wasn’t

i doubt i would love, living half as much.

I robot and other fairy tales…

i robot, and other fairy tales
by Emily Sturgill

We live in a digital age. Everything is computerized.From our “smart phones.” to our DVR players, to our video games, and our “app stores”-
Everything is run by electricity and it’s all computerized.
You can get your favorite pet-micro-chipped, but not your husband or wife,
just yet…sooner then later that will also be the norm.

With all this advanced technology, you would expect that it unites people,
but i will go out on a limb and say, it divides people too.

All this computer-tech-savy-ness, takes us apart from others. It isolates us.
How many times does my husband have to come home from work and run straight to his desktop PC, to check his MyFace, or email or news, before i begin to feel invisbile…or at least i would if i would not already listening to music or watching tv or writing on my blog or checking my own email…

So many of these techno-activities are solo. They are done solitary. I really do not understand internet dating-although I know persons who have done it and I try not to judge. I’m a far cry from a luddite-I’m just as addicted to my internet as everyone else around me.

but every once in a while, my mood descends like the Sun going down for the Day. I simply crash, not my computer, but my system-my personal bodily system. I turn the damn computer off. I turn off the cellphone. I take a nap sometimes. Today I spent 2 hours painting with watercolors.

These are somethings to do to charge your human body-batteries:
1. take a walk
2. play with a child
3. read a book
4.plant a garden
5. look for animal shapes in the clouds, outside, in the sky
6.connect with nature-go talk to a tree or better yet hug one.
7. read a book-no not a digital book-a real one where you can bend the corner to mark your place on the book’s page
8.Spend time with pets or animals
9.Spend time with family-eat dinners together
10. make real live face chat with your friends-the ones in real life.
11.Watch a sunset or sunrise.
12. At night try to see the constellations.
13. Make somebody laugh today.

I’m sure you have your own lists. My question is do we really own our laptops, computers, smartphones,email accounts, video-games or are these the things which own us the most?

i robot or is it just another modern day fairy tale?

Blanket

Life is like a blanket,
Some days, it’s warm and cozy,
other days it is old and holey.

Life is like a blanket,
it wraps you up tight, keeping you warm
throughout the longest night.

Life is like a blanket.
Something to reassure you, that comfort is there,
just behind the deepest mist.

Life is like a blanket.
Sometimes it comes apart at the seams, it goes
into the wash and never comes clean.

But still some of the strongest cloth,
and fabric remains, spinning threads which
fray out into hope,

yes Life is like a Blanket.
It covers us all, encompassing our hopes, fears, and
dreams upon a single stretch of stars under galaxies.

Even when the fabric frays, some truth tumbles out.
Even the darkest nights are filled with the brightest stars.
Never doubt, hope is real, and trust will win out.